A Merry Bloody Christmas
by singedbylife
Summary: Spike is facing yet another Christmas all alone. Post NFA, Angel season 5


Spike rolled the shot glass slowly back and forth between his fingers, staring at the golden liquid, as it twirled. Sighing, he lifted the glass to his lips and downed its contents. Placing it back on the counter, he caught the bartender's attention, and indicated that he was ready for another refill. The bartender raised his brows a little, but the vampire had been sitting on that stool for a couple of hours already without causing any problems. This close to Christmas, there weren't that many patrons anyway. The man shrugged and placed the bottle with the remaining JD in front of Spike.

"Here, the rest is on the house. When it's empty, you're outa here, all right? Know it's early but I still got some Christmas shopping to do. Merry Christmas."

"Ta." Spike replied.

Christmas. A time to spend with your loved ones. Well, Spike didn't have any and it wasn't like this season was meant for demons anyway. Certainly wasn't meant for vampires and that had never bothered him before.

Right, so it _had_ bugged him just a little because he enjoyed giving gifts. He had given Drusilla lots of presents during their time together. A nice little ring, some trinkets, dolls, a pretty child, or even a handsome bloke now and then.

Buffy – well, he'd never dared to give her anything really, but he had wanted to. Unlike other men and vamps, he really was a giver, and always had been. He was also a sodding romantic fool, always yearning for affection and bloody true love. And that was why he was sitting here on a bar stool trying to get properly drunk. The truth was that he'd never received any presents from anyone since the day he'd been turned, and it wasn't the physical lack of presents that stung. It was the reason _why_ any such presents were missing from his unlife.

He rarely saw anybody. Lorne had disappeared and Gunn didn't make it out alive. Blue was who knew where and Angel had Shanshued.

That night, three years ago, had been a strange one. Buffy and her team of Slayers had arrived in the middle of the battle and turned the tables around. Together they had kicked some demons' asses. It had been glorious and gory and most definitely good, old fashioned fun, despite Buffy's eyes shooting daggers whenever he caught sight of her. Which he did quite often. His ogling caused him some badly broken ribs, as he wasn't paying attention to his opponents. No matter, because they'd won and as soon as the hellish gates had closed, Angel had turned into a real boy. Just like that.

Once they realized what had happened, Spike felt a severe pang of jealousy, but he was still too high on adrenaline to truly care. And after a few hours, he didn't know why he'd felt jealous of Angel's newfound humanity at all. Spike didn't want to go back to having to use the loo or being bloody weak again. But of course, a real boy was what was right for Buffy and that _did_ hurt.

But things became even more strange, because Buffy hadn't hooked up with Angel as Spike would have expected her to do.

At first, she'd been too busy being mad at Spike. He deserved every bit of her anger. And he secretly cherished it. Meant that he mattered, didn't it?

But they hadn't been able to get past the last days leading up to the battle against the First Evil. Those were sacred to the both of them, and if he had tried to seduce her like he thought he wanted to, he would not only have gotten a well-deserved rejection, but he would also have ruined the memory of those days and of him as a hero. And he couldn't bring himself to do that. He was swamped by an odd mix of pride, and love, and foolish, self-induced martyrdom. She was still a hell of a woman after all and it was hard not just to go kiss her.

But it was the right thing to do.

In fact, the only thing, he truly mourned about the whole 'hero/ex-lover' deal was how they could never be friends for real. It just didn't work that way. Sure, they had been close during those last months leading up to the battle at the Hellmouth, but he would not be able to keep their relationship like that in the long term. And neither would she.

When it came to Angel and Buffy, it was the poofter, who suddenly went all shifty whenever he looked at her. Wheels had been turning inside that big, old head of his, but in the wrong direction. Bloody typical of Angel to think more about rights and wrongs from his own narrow perspective, rather than of the woman standing right in front of him. The woman who had to be more than ready to throw herself at his big, stupid feet. For whatever obscure guilt reasons, he had, Angel had decided that now that he was perfectly right for Buffy, he wasn't what she needed after all. Git.

With Angel lurking in one metaphorical corner and him standing on a bloody, more or less self-manufactured pedestal in another, he couldn't blame Buffy for bailing out after a few months, leaving him and Angel behind for good.

Christmas, sodding Christmas.

The rest of the whisky burned its way down his throat and briefly made his stomach feel warm. But that was about all it did, unfortunately. Didn't numb his heart or mind. Sod it! He was tired of feeling sorry for himself and his soul didn't help. In fact, it only made everything hurt more because it made him think clearer and realize that he was every bit as sad an excuse for a man as William had ever been. Worse even. A sad, sad demon. Bloody hell.

Abruptly he got up, nodded at the bartender and stomped out the door to the chilly outdoors of Seattle, shaking off the melancholia as he went. Shoulders drawn up to his ears to keep the rain from running inside his duster and down his back, he walked briskly towards his small, rented flat. The building belonged to a couple of middle-aged women. They weren't home during winter, but always spent the cold, wet months down in Arizona where they owned a condo. They would return in March, all suntanned and revitalized. At least somebody out there were living good lives with love and warmth.

He went down the outside steps to his basement flat and lifted his hand with the key in it, and then stopped completely in his tracks.

Someone had stuck an envelope in between the crack between the door frame and the door. A red envelope. He pulled it out slowly. "SPIKE," it said in capital, non-descript letters.

Holding the envelope in his right hand, he quickly unlocked the door and went inside. Despite his front door being mostly protected from the rain by a wooden canopy, the envelope was quite wet around the edges.

He placed it carefully next to the heater and shrugged out of his dripping duster. Then he went out into the small bathroom and rubbed his hair dry with the tiny towel. That done, he returned to his living room and sat down on the sofa bed, staring at the red envelope lying inconspicuously on top his heater. He kept his flat warm. Some might call it burning hot even, but he gladly paid extra for the luxury. It shouldn't take too long before the envelope was dry and he didn't want to open it when it was all wet as he might spoil it.

Feeling restless, he got up and went over to his small kitchenette and heated a mug of blood.

The rush of anticipation, caused by the unexpected piece of paper, had effectively chased away any remaining buzz from the alcohol he'd been drinking these past few hours. Now he was hungry and puzzled and worried. Who would leave a letter for him? Who would leave anything for him? Would this be like that package with the flash? Was this some kind of joke on behalf of the PTBs?

Sod it! He couldn't wait any longer and quickly went over to the heater, grabbed the envelope and tore it open.

It contained a Christmas card. On the front was a drawing of Christmas bells tied together by a red and golden bow. Below them, it read:

_~ MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY NEW YEAR ~_

Spike stared at the seasonal greeting, frowning. He swallowed nervously, and opened the card with slightly shaking fingers.

_Dear Spike,_

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I have booked a flight for you. (Wolfram & Hart's old company plane). It's waiting for you at the airport. So am I. Meet me in the Main Terminal asap.

Angel

Slowly, Spike closed the card. He shook his head, and opened it again. Yes, it still read that Angel was waiting for him in the airport. Spike's mind was reeling from a cacophony of emotions he didn't dare put names on, but he got up and, in a sort of daze, collected some clean clothes and threw them into his duffel bag. Then he called a cab and cursed when his shaking fingers had a hard time punching the right digits. Within fifteen minutes, he was on his way to Sea-Tac airport. Lucky, that the bartender had closed up early tonight. And bloody stupid of Angel not to leave a mobile number. What if Spike was already too late because of the big, old, stupid ponce not thinking? Frustrated, he kicked the bottom of the car and got an angry look from the cab driver.

As he entered the airport, he caught sight of Angel right away. The man was tanned but, otherwise, looked the same as he always had. Brooding, slightly stooped and with a worried frown on his handsome face, peering down at his wrist watch. When he looked up, and his eyes met Spike's, his face visibly flushed. Angel flushed. Spike couldn't quite believe it but it brought a pleasant shiver down his back and a satisfied smirk onto his face.

"Lo, Angel."

"Hi Spike. Glad you could make it. I was just about to leave."

"So what's this then? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Trouble? No trouble. I just wanted to see you. You know. It's Christmas so it's the season," Angel said lamely. Spike arched an eye-brow.

Then Angel took a deep breath and continued, "Look, I know you are a demon and that we're not big on Christmas, I mean that _you_'re not big on Christmas, but... Christ, Spike. I've been a demon for centuries, and I still can't figure out being human. I keep forgetting things. I look at humans. Study them. Mimick them or try to. I brush my teeth, cook these terrible dinners, and keep getting my ass kicked…

Angel cursed and closed his eyes.

"What I'm trying to say is that I know what I'm supposed to do and what I'm not supposed to do and I try and I try but it's so damn hard, you know? And celebrating Christmas is… well, it's another thing to do, when you're a human guy from Ireland, right? But when I celebrated Christmas last year all by myself, I felt like hell. Didn't wanna do that again. Tried to forget about Christmas, but that's even harder now that I have to go to grocery stores every week. And then I thought about you and that you probably were all alone too…"

"M' still a demon, Liam. I don't celebrate Christmas. Why didn't you call some of your human friends? Besides, I'm not alone and if I was, I don't mind it. Suits me just fine."

"No, it doesn't, William. It never did. Underneath all that brass, you're just as soft, as I am. Softer, really."

"I bloody well am not!"

"Will. I know you. I know _you_, Spike. And the funny thing is, I like what I know about you. Never did when I was soulless. Didn't understand you. But during that last year at Wolfram and Hart, when you had a soul just like I did? Well, the truth is, I liked that guy. I liked you."

Angel cleared his troat and looked away from Spike's disbeliving eyes before glancing back at him again.

"Look, I just want to spend Christmas with you. It's no big deal. I just want to talk to you a little bit and afterwards, you can go back to living here in Seattle, OK? Or...

Angel paused and looked away as if embarrassed, "Or you can stay with me in LA. It's your call." This time, Angel held Spike's gaze solemnly.

Much, much later, as they had finished Angel's awful turkey dinner and were looking at the flames flickering in Angel's fireplace, Spike couldn't wipe off his silly smile. He felt better than he had for a long time, and the fire warmed his skin pleasantly. Every now and then, he glanced over at Angel who glanced back and smiled at him. His big thumb leisurely stroked Spike's hand.

Spike blinked a bit to clear his eyes as a warm happy feeling spread inside him.

Who'd have thought, that the day would come where he would have a truly Merry bloody Christmas?

**The end**


End file.
